


my words are the salt of lust

by junes_discotheque



Series: lead me astray [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Dom/sub, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, Post-Episode: s12e01-02 Spyfall, Power Dynamics, Power Play, light sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22235107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: After thwarting the Master's plan, the Doctor goes to see him.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: lead me astray [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600486
Comments: 12
Kudos: 185





	my words are the salt of lust

**Author's Note:**

> So these two have completely taken over my brain and this is apparently a series now. Follows right after 'your voice, calling my name' and may not make sense without it, but it's all pretty pwp so you do you.
> 
> This is an alternate timeline of Spyfall: Part 2 in which they get distracted banging after the 'kneel' scene, and the Master is... incapacitated while the Doctor deals with the rest of the plot.

The evil plot is rather easily foiled, after the Master is taken care of and she has her own TARDIS back, and the Doctor tries not to be _too_ disappointed at the lack of a challenge. Her moment of victory is painfully quiet, without him showing up at the last second to try to kill her and her fam again. Oh, it’s certainly plenty exciting for the humans, who scramble into the TARDIS high on yet another narrow escape.

But for her - 

She waits until they’ve all headed to the wardrobe and showers before slipping out. They likely won’t miss her, and even if they do, searching the TARDIS for her will occupy them until she returns. 

There’s no chance, she thinks, as she steps out and locks the door behind her. Even using the sonic screwdriver on her bowtie wouldn’t keep him tied up for long, and even if he somehow _did_ have trouble getting out, the controls to his own TARDIS were well within his reach. He won’t still be there.

And yet, when she turns the corner, it’s _there_.

Her breath catches.

For a moment, she almost doesn’t go. She almost turns around, goes back to the safety of her own TARDIS, of her friends - her _fam_. 

Almost.

She tells herself it’s not because she’s hiding from them. The Master might have another plan up his sleeve; he might be executing the perfect method of killing them all - for real, this time. Finding out what he’s still doing here is justified diligence, she thinks. Nothing at all to do with avoiding questions about her past that she doesn’t know how to answer.

The Doctor finds him in much the same position she’d left him, wrist still tied to the console and everything. He’s sitting on the floor, though, now, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other outstretched. The Master snarls when he sees her, and then his expression goes carefully blank.

“Doctor,” he greets her. “Are you going to untie me?”

“You can untie yourself,” she says. “Why haven’t you?”

His mouth twitches; trembles. “So could you, when I had you here. But you _let_ me -”

“I didn’t _let_ you do anything,” she snaps. How many thousands of years have they been at this, and he _still_ doesn’t understand - “You did what _I_ wanted.”

He grins, wide and manic, and laughs at her. “And now you’ve got an _itch,_ haven’t you, Doctor? That’s why you’re back here, isn’t it?” He licks his lips and leans forward, dragging his gaze from her eyes to the tops of her boots. She wants to hide from his scrutiny. She wants to revel in it. “I showed that body how to _feel_ , and now you can’t _scratch_ it without me.”

She rolls her eyes. Yes - it’s rare that she’s touched by anyone else the way she is by him, and yes - he’s more often than not the one who awakens those feelings in her new bodies first. But it’s just as often the other way around, as well. Her first times are his first times; they’ve spent centuries learning each other’s bodies all over again, only for everything to fall to ashes and to meet, years - decades - centuries - millennia later, with new faces and new voices and new - 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the Doctor says. “I just wanted to tell you that your plan’s failed. Again.”

“Are you going to imprison me in your TARDIS?” he asks, and then, mockingly, “ _again_?”

She sighs. “What would be the point? You’d just escape, and then you’d miss my attention, and we’d be right back here, doing this all over again.”

The Master shrugs. “Oh, I dunno. I can think of plenty of things we can do before that happens. Of course, you’d have to send all your little friends back home, and I hear they’re wanted criminals. Bit awkward, that. But you do always leave them worse off than you found them, don’t you?”

The truth of his words pierce her. “That’s not - I don’t -” she says weakly, and his face splits into a wide grin.

“Oh, _Doctor_ ,” he says, laughing. “How many lives has your loneliness destroyed?”

“How many has yours?” she snaps back. Whether or not he’s right, she won’t let him claim superiority in this.

Abruptly, his laughter stops. The Master’s lips move wordlessly; his eyes are haunted. Slowly, she steps forward. “You don’t know the half of it,” he whispers. “ _Doctor_.”

She drops to her knees at his reverence and stares into the expanse of his face. There’s a horror there that she hasn’t seen since -

The Doctor presses her mind against his, only to find a solid wall in her way. “None of that,” he says, clicking his tongue and drumming the fingers of his free hand against the side of his own head: _tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap_. “There are things in here you’ll just need to see for yourself.”

“What things?” She swallows. “What have you done?”

He shakes his head and lets out a high, manic giggle. “All in time, Doctor,” he says, leaning in close to her. “But… I suppose there’s _one_ thing I can show you.” 

Then his mouth is on hers, his hand tangled in her hair as he presses them together. Teeth against her lip and tongue pushing inside. Her hands - both free - twitch at her sides, but she makes no move to push him away. Or to pull him closer. 

The Doctor’s bones and veins and muscles vibrate under her skin as he pushes into her, grips her hair in his fist and _pulls._ She gasps in pain, a hitch of a moan as it sends shocks through her body, and he laughs into her mouth.

“Come on, Doctor,” he says. “I know you know how this works.” And she does - not in this body, not with this him, but she remembers. She remembers kissing others, too, a long line of companions and lovers and _wives -_

He growls at her and his mind opens just a little, just enough, that he can press his memories into her. A dozen and more lifetimes. “ _Don’t_ think about them,” he says, angrily, and the Doctor blinks at him.

“I won’t,” the Doctor says, though what she truly means is she _can’t._ She can travel all of time and space, but her past is always her past and if she stops to remember it, it will destroy her. Except for him - her past, present, future. She could watch him die a thousand times and he’d still come back for her. She’d let him shatter her hearts to pieces, as long as that fundamental truth of them remained.

The Master is staring at her, stunned, and she realizes the barrier between them is still open, and he _heard_ -

She should be ashamed. 

Instead, she reaches up to where his hand is still twisted in her hair and squeezes it, leaning in towards him and tilting her head. She’s not sure which of them cross over to the other first, but it hardly matters. His lips are soft and warm, and this time, when he presses his tongue to the seal of her mouth, it’s with a hesitancy she hasn’t felt in - _lifetimes_.

She lets him in, curling her own against his, welcoming him, and he shudders. Gasps into her mouth. Tightens his fist in her hair and _pulls_.

The Doctor lets out a sharp cry at the pain, letting go of his hand and grabbing at his shirt. He bites down on her lip and laughs.

“You’ve always liked that, haven’t you?” he asks, pulling harder. Tears prick her eyes. “Come on, Doctor. Tell me.”

She can’t hide from him; she never could. He strips her bare with just a look and she does nothing to fight it. “You know I do,” she whispers, her voice rough. It’s a constant between all her regenerations - she leans into the pain, chases it, feels it pooling hot between her legs. Even if what she’s got there now is different, her body still knows what it likes.

The Master smiles fondly at her. “Good,” he says. He lets go of her hair, strokes gently over her burning, stinging scalp while she struggles to catch her breath.

She shouldn’t like it, him praising her like that - coming from _him_ it should be no compliment at all. But it’s been so long since someone who _knows_ her has seen her, and judged her, and not found her impossibly wanting that she can’t help but lean into his approval.

“Oh, my dear Doctor,” he sighs, and she feels his mind brushing just over the surface of her consciousness. “You _are_ a mess.”

He sounds sad; contemplative; and it’s the last thing she needs from him. His poison kindness is unbearable. He’s bracing himself, like he’s going to say something else - something she doesn’t want to hear - and in a panic she does the only thing she can think of to keep him quiet.

The Master lets out a soft grunt as she swings her leg over his waist and settles in his lap, but recovers quickly enough to grab a fistful of hair at the back of her head and drag her down for a rough, punishing kiss. She braces herself with one hand on his wrist, where it’s still tied to his TARDIS console, and the other curled into the fabric of his shirt. His chest is pressed so close to hers, she can feel the echo of his heartsbeats a millisecond off of hers - wild and frantic and just as out of control as her own. 

She can feel him between her legs, now, hard and hot through his trousers; unyielding; and when she pushes her hips against his it rubs against her and sends waves of heat up through her belly to her throat. He makes a soft, choked sound, that turns into a deep groan when she moves against him again, dragging her body firmly against his.

“Keep going,” he growls, and he lets go of her hair to press against her lower back, urging her to move faster. The Doctor barely needs the prompting; the rough fabric of her boxers drags between her legs with each thrust, sharp and stinging and so good she can’t think of anything but chasing that feeling. The Master had been right - he’d awoken an itch in her.

But she’d awoken one in him, as well.

He moves against her almost hesitantly, and it’s not - it’s good, but it’s not what she _needs,_ and so. Knowing it’s a bad idea, knowing it likely won’t end well, she tugs at the tie on his wrist and it falls apart easily. As if she’d never sealed the knot.

There’s no time for her to question it, why he’d let her think he was still helpless, before he has her shoved onto her back. He braces himself above her, pressing hard between her legs, and she grabs at him - tries to get him to move.

“None of that,” the Master says, dangerously soft. “I know what you need.”

What she needs is to _come,_ and she’s far past caring how that happens. She hooks her leg over his hips, pushes up against him, rubs herself on him. He laughs at her desperation.

“ _Doctor_ ,” he says, feather-light against her lips. She raises her head, just a little, to brush their mouths together. Sparks light up under her skin and for a moment she’s so distracted he doesn’t notice his arms are moving until he’s got her wrists gathered in one hand and pinned above her head.

This, too, is new, and the Doctor takes a second to marvel at it: That she’s small enough, now, to be pinned so easily like this, and he’s broad enough to do it. That his hands are large enough to capture her wrists in one with no difficulty. 

Despite her relative size, she’s not weak. If she really wanted to - if she truly believed he would cause her harm - she could break free of his grasp and fight him off. She doesn’t do either, just squirms a little against the floor - rubs herself against him - feels his hands tighten on her wrists.

“You’ll take what I give you,” he says. “Understand?”

She glares at him. “Not promising anything,” she says.

The Master bares his teeth and presses his free hand against her throat. “Try that again,” he says, squeezing lightly, his fingers digging into her skin. She tilts her head back and gasps out a laugh.

“I made it easy on you before,” she says, thinking of a few hours - and nearly two hundred years - prior, when her skin had been buzzing from his return and the way he’d put her on her knees and made her say his name. The Doctor had been desperate, then.

She’s not as desperate now.

But _he_ is.

His hand tightens around her throat. Not enough to cut off her air completely, but enough that she’s forced to shorten her breaths. She jerks in his grip and he laughs. “Good,” he says, and kisses her - her temple first, then her cheek, then her trembling, gasping mouth.

The Doctor doesn’t have enough breath to cry out as he grinds his hips down, rubbing his hardness where she needs it - where she’s burning hot and _soaking_. The Master squeezes her throat in pulses, five seconds at a time, and her head spins as she bucks up into his body. Each time he steals her breath and gives it back she feels herself getting wetter, the friction of it just on the wrong side of uncomfortable where his body rubs against hers, but she doesn’t _care._ She can feel the warmth and pressure building inside her, higher and higher, and he cuts off her air and _holds her_ and -

He lets go just before she hits the crest, and she lets out a sob as it’s ripped away from her. “ _Please,_ ” she gasps frantically, struggling against him. “Please, please -”

“Please, what?” he asks, deceptively soft. The fingers that were on her throat are dancing over her face now, tracing over her cheekbones, her nose, the little wrinkle between her eyes. 

She shakes her head, pushing his hand away. “Please, I need -”

“Do you want to come?” he asks, and she nods frantically. “Then I need to hear you _say it._ ”

She wants to see what he’ll do if she doesn’t; she wants to challenge him again. But she’s also realizing how wrong she was before: she is desperate, and he is controlled. 

“Master,” she says. She feels his hand on her wrists squeezing, and she swallows, preparing to do what he wants - to beg for him, plead for him to put his other hand back on her throat, to touch her, to make her _come_ -

But she doesn’t get the chance. In an instant, he’s choking her again; she can feel his fingernails pricking her skin and he takes her air away for longer, releasing her just long enough that her respiratory bypass doesn’t have a chance to kick in. Her lips tingle with every shallow, wheezing pass of air, and then his fingers squeeze the side of her throat, his palm pushing hard on her windpipe.

The Doctor sees little bursts of light in front of her eyes as her head swims. He’s shoving at her, pressing his need against her own, and this time he doesn’t stop - lets go briefly, as she rises higher, so that she can suck in one last shallow breath between her lips - and then it crashes around her.

She can hear him crying out as well, feel a wetness spreading between them that she knows isn’t just from her, but his hand doesn’t leave her throat. Not until everything’s gone nearly to black.

Then he does release her, and she falls to her side, choking and gasping and trembling. Her arms are freed, as well, and she pulls them to her chest, rubbing over her wrists in turn - the red marks from her bow tie now joined by finger-shaped bruises, and she’s sure there are ones on her neck to match.

(She is aware that this is going to be a problem - her fam will want to know why the Doctor looks like she’s just had the life choked out of her. But she won’t worry about it, yet.)

“Doctor?”

She rolls over on her back to find the Master kneeling at her side, hands hovering over her body like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch her. She wants, more than anything, to reassure him; to sit up, and kiss him, and put his hands on her. 

And, at the same time, she knows exactly why that’s a bad idea.

“I should,” she says, sitting up and running her fingers through her hair. She finds it impossibly tangled and sweat-soaked. She wishes she could ask him for a shower.

“Right,” the Master says, awkwardly. “Your little _pets_ will be missing you, won’t they.”

Honestly, she hopes not - if they’re missing her, it means they’ve realized she’s not in the TARDIS, and she’ll have to come up with some explanation for her absence.

And if they see her before she can get herself cleaned up -

“Um. Will you. Wait a moment?” he asks, and without waiting for a response, vanishes down the hall into the next room.

The Doctor stares after him. She considers leaving, before he can decide he’s not going to let her go after all, but she’s still a little woozy and isn’t sure she’d be exactly stable on her feet, yet. So she goes back to attempting to unknot her hair, while she waits for him to get back.

The Master returns sooner than she expected, with a scarf and a disc. The scarf is knitted yarn in purple and gold, and he wraps it around her neck - loosely, but close enough to cover the marks he’s certainly left on her. The disc is slipped into her pocket.

“What’s this for?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse. It hurts to talk. He rubs his thumb over the knot in the scarf.

“When was the last time you went home?” he asks. She shakes her head.

“Not for awhile,” she admits. “I don’t - I haven’t -” She swallows against the pain and rage boiling inside her and sighs. “Why?”

“I hate to upset you,” he says, which is - it’d be funny, if he didn’t look so stricken. “I went back and it - it’s gone. Destroyed. Burned, obliterated, everyone -” He smiles at her, a horrible, twisted thing.

She frowns at him. “You’re lying,” she says, but she can hear the doubt in her own voice.

“See for yourself,” he says, and stands. She scrambles to her feet and nearly trips over herself rushing to the door of his TARDIS. 

The Doctor takes one look behind her as the Master takes his place at his console. He doesn’t move to start it. She’d thought he would -

“Goodbye, Master,” she says.

He nods. “For now.”

* *

Graham is in the control room, sitting on the steps and waiting when she gets back.

“Ryan and Yaz went to go find something to eat,” he says, staring at the scarf around her neck. “You really need to restock your cupboards.”

“Right,” the Doctor says. 

He stands and walks down to her. Starts to say something, then stops. A pause. “If you need anything, Doc -”

“Just going to take a shower,” she says, pulling her jacket tightly around herself, hiding the obvious stains on her trousers. 

“Well, like I said. I’ll make sure Ryan saves you something when they get back.”

She smiles at him - or tries to; she’s not sure that it’s a particularly successful attempt - and pushes past him as she heads down the hall to her rooms.

Then, when the door is firmly shut behind her and she’s certain no one can hear, she lets herself cry.


End file.
